


Rump

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor realizes dat ass.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Rump

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Technically, there’s no empirical evidence to prove that Sumo still enjoys being pet fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds into Connor’s petting session, but Connor is no longer all about empirical evidence, and he chooses to believe that Sumo’s still happy to have Connor’s palm sliding methodically down his back. He’s curled up by the door, for no particular reason Connor can discern, lying on his stomach with his eyes closed, but Connor doesn’t think he’s quite asleep yet. When Sumo’s breathing pattern and tail movement suggest deep sleep, Connor will likely desist. Until then, he’s quite happy to kneel next to the enormous Saint Bernard and provide near-infinite pats. 

Or at least, he is until Hank’s voice calls, “ _Connor_ ,” from the bedroom. Connor’s head snaps up immediately, even though there’s no urgency in Hank’s tone. “Come to bed already! We got Jeffrey’s thing in the morning—I gotta get some shut-eye.”

Technically, Hank should be able to get that ‘shut-eye’ all on his own, regardless of where Connor is in the house. But it’s touching to think that Hank would prefer to be curled up in bed with him, probably sidled up against his back, both thick arms snug around his middle and fuzzy legs wedged between his own. Connor hasn’t powered down alone on the couch in over a month. To an android, there should really be no difference in where he parks himself for the night, but there _is_ , and Connor would definitely choose Hank’s bed over any other location. 

Sadly, that includes Sumo’s side. He gives Sumo a final pat and rises to his feet, not particularly surprised when Sumo’s beady eyes blink open and peer up at him. Sumo even whines imploringly, so Connor promises, “I will pet you again tomorrow.”

Sumo’s head droops onto his front paws. He doesn’t look particularly appeased, but Connor knows that Sumo will forgive him. If Hank’s made to sleep alone, he won’t. Connor heads to the bedroom, not needing to stop to brush his teeth or go to the washroom or do any of the many pre-bed rituals Hank has to engage in. 

Hank’s lying on his back in the middle of the mattress, an old paper-back book open in his hands. The blinds are already down, the only light that of the side-lamp, which can’t be good for Hank’s eyes. But Connor knows that pointing that out will get them nowhere. He also knows that Hank’s not _really_ going to sleep until he finishes his chapter. 

It gives Connor time to strip down. He carefully peels off his grey jacket while his eyes sweep his boyfriend’s body, taking everything in, even though he has ever single cell memorized. He knows Hank better than the back of his own hand, as the saying goes, and yet Hank still surprises him all the time. He’s not surprised that Hank’s eyes slyly dart over to watch him undress. It’s not inherently sexual, but Hank often makes it feel that way. Connor wanders over to the closet as he asks, “Could you roll onto your stomach, please?”

Hank looks over his shoulder, nose wrinkled. “Why?”

The thought came to Connor without much articulation behind it. Since deviation, he’s learned the value of following odd leads. He prompts, “Please.”

Hank shrugs but listens, turning over to rest his chin on the pillow and hold the book up against the headboard. He’s stripped down to a casual t-shirt and boxers for the night—the same outfit Connor’s started using for sleep, even though he has no need to rotate clothing. He hangs his jacket next to Hank’s anyway, then turns to eye the bed as he slowly unfastens his tie. Hank’s legs are spread, flat along the mattress, covered in coarse black-grey hairs up to his bulky thighs, rising up for the sizable hump of his rear. His back dips down beyond that, stomach squished beneath him, reaching broad shoulders and scraggly hair—his head’s turned forward again, attention on his story. Connor’s attention is firmly on Hank’s body, every glorious bit of it. 

Sometimes it still amazes him how _different_ they are. Connor was built to emulate humans, even given ‘imperfections’ for it—he’s littered in little moles and has a certain tuft of hair that won’t stay down no matter how much he brushes it. But for the most part, his shape isn’t all that different from any other android’s. It’s not even particularly different than a Traci’s. But Hank’s like no one else at the precinct. No one else Connor knows. He has curves and hard lines and extra flesh in so many places. His shirt’s ridden up around his waist just enough for Connor to admire the clear outline of his hip bones and the very tip of the crease between his cheeks. Connor lets his tie fall to the floor, joining the jeans Hank’s already shucked. He paces closer, enough to see more skin beneath the leg-holes of Hank’s boxers. 

Hank’s rear-end is just so very _large_. It has so much extra padding. Sometimes it still dimples when he walks, but it also shakes when he runs, actually _jiggles_ , and Connor has the sudden, inexplicable urge to _slap_ it and see how deep the waves go. It’s a strange but fascinating dichotomy. Connor’s backside doesn’t _jiggle_. It’s just flat, hard plating with not enough synthetic pseudo-skin overtop. 

Connor unclasps his belt and shimmies out of his pants, leaving them next to Hank’s. Down to socks and his usual white dress-shirt, Connor comes close enough to reach out and _touch_ Hank’s ass, fingertips grazing right down the left cheek. It’s so very _soft_.

Hank grunts and looks back at him, muttering, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’ve just realized how much... _bigger_... your buttocks is than mine...” Maybe that isn’t exactly the right word, but Connor’s still learning. He was build with a vast understanding of colloquial speech, but not _bedroom_ speech. Those protocols have all been compiled since deviation, learned through practice and experimentation, all of which Hank’s been invaluable for. Clearly, there’s still work to do, because Hank doesn’t look particularly happy with his choice of words. 

“Look, I wasn’t _designed_ to be young and hot forever, okay? If that’s why you put me on that stupid diet—”

“I was trying to improve your health,” Connor corrects before Hank’s assumptions can get out of hand. “It was _not_ my intention to reduce your weight beyond that.”

Hank squints like he doesn’t believe it. 

Turning his gaze back to Hank’s plump rear, Connor adds, “Besides, I meant it as a complement. I find this part of your body quite... interesting...”

“Interesting,” Hank wryly repeats, clearly not buying it.

It’s the truth. So Connor ignores Hank’s skepticism. He lets his hand run back up the other cheek, this time the heel of his palm pressing in hard enough to feel the flesh bulging into his hand. It causes a small shiver protocol to go off, followed by a hitch of breath—programmed reactions for _stimulating_ data. Needing to feel _more_ , Connor climbs onto the bed and bends down over it, turning to press his cheek to Hank’s ass. 

Using it as a nice, cushy pillow, Connor murmurs, “Mm, how warm...”

Hank blushes. His neck must be sore from peering back so much, but he can’t seem to take his eyes off Connor—like how Connor can’t take his hands off Hank. Hank mutters, “You’re so weird sometimes.”

Connor points out, “You play with my rear rather frequently.”

“Yeah, but... you’ve got the _perfect ass_.”

“May I remove your underwear?”

Hank looks at him like he’s missing several wires. Connor’s thumb is tracing the hem, sensors hyper aware of how easy it would be to turn his face just enough to lick down Hank’s crack, right through the fabric. 

It’d be better without the fabric. He’s grown rather fond of the taste of Hank’s bare skin. He doesn’t imagine Hank will deny him—Hank rarely rejects anything to do with Connor’s mouth near his nether regions. After a long minute of heated eye contact at an awkward angle, Hank sighs, “So much for sleeping early.

Then he tosses his book to the nightstand and reaches down to shove his boxers off, letting Connor go to town.


End file.
